


A Croft Christmas

by pfangirl



Category: Tomb Raider & Related Fandoms, Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Family, Feels, Other, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pfangirl/pseuds/pfangirl
Summary: A special seasonal story set before Yamatai. Archaeology student Lara Croft tries to keep herself occupied on this most painful of holidays. Set in the same universe as Can't Go Home and Easier to Run, but can be safely read standalone.





	1. Chapter 1

For a split second she panicked when she realised that her alarm hadn't gone off. Then she remembered why. She hadn't bothered to set it.

She rolled onto her back and blinked at the ceiling.

It was 8am on a weekday and London was silent. No dull roar of the urban ocean outside the flat. No traffic. No murmuring, clip-clopping pedestrians on the pavement. There could be only one reason for that.

She exhaled slowly and pulled the covers back up to her neck.

"Merry Christmas, Lara Croft."

* * *

She really didn't enjoy Christmas. Beneath all the hyper-consumerism and gluttony, it was a day for family, which made it an especially painful reminder that she didn't have one. It stung as much as the air that time of year.

And with it came the unwanted memories of all those Christmas holidays she was unable to join Roth, and simply stayed at boarding school – throwing herself into study and any solo physical pursuit she could think of. Girls would come back with all sorts of stories from their skiing holidays in the French Alps, or shopping expeditions in New York; Lara would have set a new school record for the barebow or cross-country mile. And, probably have already completed her 1 000-word essay on feminism and folklore revisionism in The Mists of Avalon.

* * *

Well, she wasn't going to let herself sit brooding over her melancholy past today if she could help it.

She threw back her duvet, pulled on a robe and went to make tea. She returned with her mug, a couple of Sainsbury's mince pies on a plate, and slipped back under the covers.

Normally her morning routine would include a run or a yoga session, but this was her Christmas present to herself. A good ol' lazy lie-in.

She picked up her phone and thumbed through the contacts list.

A familiar gruff voice answered. "Hello."

"Merry Christmas, Roth."

"Is that today?"

That sucked the momentum from the conversation.

She was about to respond to fill the sudden lull when he chuckled. "I'm only joking. Merry Christmas, girl."

She smiled. "How's Indonesia?"

"Warm. Too warm. I wish I was back home griping about the gas bill and the cost of a decent-sized gammon."

"Please wish Grim and the others a happy Christmas from me."

"I will. Oh, right, Alex said to wish you the same when I spoke to you. And to ask if you got his message."

 _God, Alex_. It was obvious that he liked her, but she was completely disinterested. At the same time though, he was sweet and dorky, and she really didn't want to hurt his feelings. Which made being confined with him on the Endurance really awkward. At least it was easier to avoid him and his misguided attempts at impressing her when she was on land half a world away. Literally. _Technical difficulties_ was always the easiest excuse to haul out when confronted about her lack of response.

Roth added, "I hope you're doing something fun with Sam today?"

She hadn't expected that question.

"Oh… yes, of course." She added swiftly, "You don't have to worry about me."

"I never do, Lara. You're your father's daughter."

"I'll let you get back to what you were doing. Merry Christmas, Roth."

"Good to hear from you, girl. Merry Christmas."

She ended the call. And was right back in the dumps.

* * *

A week earlier she'd actually, uncharacteristically, been excited for Christmas. She and Sam had been living together for almost 6 months and this was going to be their first holiday as flatmates. Lara didn't have a family; Sam was distant from hers, so they were going to celebrate together – be their own family unit.

The plan was to start the day with eggnog, open presents and stay pleasantly sozzled right through the day, including their small, shared Christmas dinner. The latter would be prepared by the friends together, and the end result would hopefully go unaccompanied by the usual array of burnt pots and roasting pans.

Lara had also been secretly entertaining a fantasy for weeks. She didn't believe that she could ever generate enough Dutch courage to actually initiate it in reality, but she liked to replay the scene over and over in her head. She would wait until Sam was her happy drunk self and then dangle a sprig of mistletoe over her head. There was no arguing against that. Eggnog. Snog. They were equally important holiday traditions.

Lara would make light of it as a one-time thing; Sam would chuckle and throw her arms over her roommate's shoulders... and no matter how chaste the end result, Lara would still get the one gift she wanted most – one that she had realised she craved only one month before.

Already they had put up a little tree and strung some lights – including across the Men at Work sign suspended above Lara's bedroom door. The little flat was looking quite festive, and Lara, for once, was feeling quite festive.

After an afternoon at the campus library – her never-fail happy place – she was humming as she hung up her coat.

While she was still busy, she felt arms ensnare her from behind. "Lara! You won't believe it."

The embrace made her blush but it also made her smile broadly – the perfect innocent cover for her real, far from platonic feelings.

She turned around to face her jubilant flatmate. "Hey, Sam. What's up?"

"My dad has arranged a surprise ski trip to Niseko for Christmas and New Year's. The entire Nishimura clan. My uncles and aunts, my cousins, even my obaasan."

The English girl's face fell. As did her heart.

Sam was still bouncing up and down. She seized her companion's hands. "Lara, you have to come; be my bastion of sanity amidst all the family cray-cray."

"I can't."

"Pleeeeaaassseeeee."

"Sam, I can't afford it." She extricated her fingers from her friend's.

That was the truth: Last minute, peak season flights would be hellishly expensive. And she refused to believe that Takahiro Nishimura, as much as he liked her, would pay well over a thousand pounds for her to gate-crash a family gathering.

Of course, as soon as the issue of money came up, Sam's jaw clenched. Lara supposed she should be grateful that her flatmate didn't start muttering "Call Mr Dorchester," which had become her refrain whenever Lara looked pained because of her financial situation. Sam just couldn't understand why her friend didn't take the easy way out and accept her inheritance. Along with Sam's relentlessly awful choice in boyfriends, the topic was the most frequent initiator of sulky, snappy rows between the two friends.

Still, the American girl had enough sense just then not to start a fight. She could see how the news of her suddenly changed holiday plans had deflated Lara.

Sam frowned, "Will you be okay, sweetie? I mean I know you were really looking forward to celebrating with just the two of us."

"I'll be fine."

"Honestly, Lara? Because I haven't responded to my dad yet. I can still turn him down."

"Don't be silly. This is your father reaching out; making an effort. Which is what you wanted. You have to go."

And that was that. Sam had left two days ago and Lara was once again alone for the holidays.

* * *

Back in the Christmas Day present – without a jolly drunken giant for a guide – Lara's phone pinged. She retrieved it from the side table. Despite herself, she couldn't suppress a smile at the message on the screen.

_Merry Christmas, Pom:)_

Lara wrote back, _**Merry Christmas, Yank**_ **.**

_I thought ud b up by now. Probab run a marathon or finished ur Masters thesis, amirite?_

_**Just lying in bed, thinking of you.** _

Typed out, the truth sounded more jokey than tragic. She swiftly added a winking smiley for extra emo- and ambiguity-squashing effect.

_LOL. What can I say? Its my superpwr._

_**The gift that keeps on giving…** _

_Speaking of gifts, I thought we werent doing them?_

_**I have no idea what you're talking about.** _

_BULLSHIT, CROFT! I found da package in my case, hidden inside da smoking Dior I brght 4 Christmas dinner._

_**How curious. Did you open it? Maybe there's a clue who it's from.** _

_I know exactly who its from._

The text was followed by a photo – Sam, dressed up to the nines, sitting at some kind of banquet table. The glamorous effect was undone by her wide-eyed, wide-mouthed look of surprise as she pointed at the gift in her other hand. It was kabuki-level overreaction, and the sight of her made Lara chuckle. Although it also needled at her heart, especially when she read the message under the pic.

_Impossibly adorable more like… I love it, Lara! Thank you:)  
_

The archaeology student ran her thumb over the image, wishing she was on the other side of the planet, squished at that very moment in a grateful embrace from her best friend.

She had hoped Sam would appreciate the gift: a soft, leather-bound journal embossed with the Nishimura name in Kanji. On the inside cover the English girl had also scrawled, "Now write it down! Love your impossibly nerdy flatmate."

She grinned as she reread Sam's response. _Impossibly adorable more like…_

Realising it was her turn to restart the conversation, Lara hastily typed, _**I know you like your gadgets for voice memos and notes, but the book is for your great ideas. Handwriting gives them the gravitas they deserve.**_

_Thanks, Charles Dickens;)_

Lara had to ask the obvious question. _**Are you drunk?**_

_Only if its possible 2 b drunk on fried chicken. Jesus. Evrythng that went into that 3 mnth diet undone in like 1 hr. FML._

Lara laughed.

_Anyway, g_ _otta go._

_Theres this cutie from Canada here & hes so out his depth with Japanese. Its adorable. Im gonna give him a helping hand so to speak. Get him up to speed with da local tongue & totally make his day;)_

_Ho ho ho!_

_Chat soon, babe._

* * *

Lara flopped back on the mattress. She could feel her smile beginning to wane. She didn't want to think about Sam getting it on with yet another bloke.

She drew the pillow over her face, and groaned into it.

_Crushing on your best friend, Lara? Just how much of a pathetic, sad masochist are you?_


	2. Chapter 2

Shortly before midday the archaeology student dressed and left the flat. During the walk and tube ride she tried to keep her gaze on the ground before her so she didn't have to see any contented couples strolling the pavement hand in hand, or similarly happy families inside flat windows.

Being Christmas, that was a bit harder than usual. Most people were cheerful, smiling and greeting strangers in typically non-Londoner fashion.

Once inside the Nine Bells, Lara quickly removed her Winter woollies and put on the rest of her work uniform. Accompanying the mandated, cleavage-flashing white top, black slacks and apron was today, she discovered, a cheesy Santa hat with flashing pompom.

She still was examining the latter when her boss stuck his head around the corner. He was sporting a similar piece of headgear, she noticed.

"Croft, Happy Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Mr Ansell."

"You have a good morning?"

"Yes."

"Good. Thank you for doing this, by the way."

"It's no problem, sir."

"Glad to hear it. Now finish getting ready. We need serviettes and crackers on every table. They'll be here soon."

Lara was the only barmaid who had volunteered to work the Nine Bells' special Christmas lunch.

The pub was a dive, and it frequently became dangerous on Friday and Saturday nights as beer flowed and machismo levels rose accordingly. There were occasions where Lara had leapt unthinking – and very foolishly – into the middle of a fight to break it up. Other times she had found herself on her knees next to a heavily bleeding man, applying pressure with a towel while she waited for an ambulance to arrive. Her public school education was broad, but no classes or extramurals (not even first aid) could prepare her for the horror dispensed with a broken bottle.

But there was a different type of patron at the Nine Bells too – men and women for whom the establishment was their local; their only option for social stress relief. The pub wasn't in a good area, and many of the regulars Lara served were struggling financially, on the dole, alcoholics or simply discarded pensioners with nowhere else to be. It was for these customers that Charlie was throwing his annual Christmas lunch.

The burly proprietor of the Nine Bells could pass for Agrius or Oreius any day of the week but he had a soft heart. Even if it was hidden under a crusty shell of crisp crumbs, booze residue and a decade's build-up of thick black cooking grease. As gruff as he was, as often as he yelled at her, Charlie Ansell was a good man.

She got to work.

* * *

It turned out that what she suspected was true: working on Christmas Day was just the distraction she needed.

The dinner guests – invite only – were truly grateful. And the atmosphere was really quite cheerful. It was easy to get caught up the toasts and bawdy jokes and off-colour Christmas carols.

While she was returning used side plates to the kitchen she felt her phone vibrate inside the front pocket of her trousers. Balancing the crockery on one arm, she hauled out her mobile – hoping to God it wasn't some syrupy holiday greeting from Alex.

It wasn't.

She felt a jolt pass through her as she read the name and the message below it.

Sam.

_Wish you were here._

Exhilaration spread out from the centre of her chest, just as a smile spread across her lips.

Before she could respond to the text though, Charlie barked, "Croft, get off your phone. I'm sure you have a dozen boyfriends to string along but the roast potatoes aren't going to serve themselves."

* * *

It was while she was dishing out the potatoes to elderly Mrs Jacobi that the widow said, "Lara, give me your hand and close your eyes."

The barmaid obliged.

She felt something soft being deposited in her palm. When she opened her eyes again, there was a wad of red tissue paper there.

"Merry Christmas, dear," the old woman smiled up at her. "My apologies for the wrapping. I battle with me hands these days."

Lara knew she did. Her fingers were afflicted by a permanent tremor. It was heart-breaking to see her fumbling with a knife and fork, and nobody to help her.

Not that she seemed at all troubled by her ailing body at that moment. The old woman was beaming at Lara.

"Mrs Jacobi?"

"Open it, dear."

The archaeology student parted the folds of paper. In the centre of the crumpled nest was a simple silver bracelet. Lara plucked it free and appraised it between her index finger and thumb. It was vintage; that much was clear by the tarnish and mangle of scratches marring the smooth surface. It was exquisite though, with evidence of supreme craftsmanship. Delicately engraved ivy crept along the edges. In places she could even see veins in the leaves, spreading out from the midrib; but so finely incised that when the light shifted it was easy to think that they had never been there at all, and were simply a trick of the eye. A marvellous illusion.

Mrs Jacobi explained, "I know you like your history. It was my grandmother's. From the time of Victoria's Diamond Jubilee. You see? You can read the inscription there."

Lara returned the jewellery to its wrapping and held it out to the old woman.

She frowned, "Mrs Jacobi, I can't accept this."

"Of course you can, love."

"No, I can't. This – " She felt herself tearing up. Her one single Christmas present and it was from an elderly widow who Lara had done nothing for but serve the occasional shandy and plate of chips. "Mrs Jacobi, this is too much."

The old woman took Lara's hand in her palm and closed the girl's fingers over the bracelet.

"You've always been kind to me, dear. More so than me own daughter and granddaughter."

As Lara opened her mouth to object, Mrs Jacobi added, "I always wanted the bracelet to go to someone who appreciates it. It would make an old woman very happy if you'd accept it."

The way she was smiling at her, so sadly… Lara nodded and slipped the gift inside her apron.

* * *

By 3pm the celebration was winding down. The last round of drinks had been ordered and the flaming Christmas pudding served. The wall-mounted TV that normally blasted football or horseracing was set to the Queen's Christmas Message instead.

Lara tried to remain inconspicuous during the broadcast, and for good reason.

Sam had unthinkingly revealed her friend's aristocratic heritage the last time she stopped by the pub, and now Charlie and his patrons wouldn't let the English girl live it down. It had been bad enough when they thought she was posh; the teasing became much worse when they found out she was a bone fide blueblood.

As the address was drawing to a close, Charlie yelled so that everyone could hear, "Croft, you ever have tea with her?"

Everyone started laughing.

Trying to ignore the fact that she was suddenly sporting cheeks as red as her hat, Lara responded, straight-faced, "No, Mr Ansell. But I played polo with Harry once."

The room hushed. At the same time, the sparkle in Charlie's grin sputtered and died.

If only the twitch to her lip hadn't given her away.

Charlie roared, "You cheeky blighter."

That earned her a slap on the back, but it did a lot to win people over. She chuckled along with them.

* * *

Less than an hour later, the festivities were over. Lara had received many more unexpected gifts by that point. Most guests had tipped generously. As for Charlie, he pulled her aside and presented her with a fat envelope. He was murmuring – for once a teddy bear instead of a raging grizzly, "I know I give you a lot of grief, girl, but you're a hard worker. Thank you."

Then her shift was done.

Lara was alone in the back room, stacking empty bottles and putting away the pub's rarely used special occasion crockery.

She gazed at her phone wistfully. It was too late to message Sam. Not that her flatmate would have any qualms about it if the roles were reversed but Lara didn't feel comfortable about sending a text when it would be after 1am in Hokkaido.

Instead, she removed Mrs Jacobi's bracelet from her apron and began scrutinising the treasure.

"Croft!"

Her boss's bark made her jump. He was standing in the doorway.

"What are you still doing here?" he demanded, though his expression was more exasperated than angry. "It's Christmas fer Godsakes. Go home; enjoy the rest of yer day."


	3. Chapter 3

"What are you still doing here?" Ansell demanded, though his expression was more exasperated than angry. "It's Christmas fer Godsakes. Go home; enjoy the rest of yer day."

* * *

Well, one out of two wasn't bad.

Driving the narrow country roads was slow going, especially since it had been snowing. She probably should have been concentrating more on her immediate task but she was in a contemplative mood. Sam would have said it was her default state.

Still, she wasn't entirely sure that this little excursion was a good idea, particularly when she'd been dangling off the emotionally desolate brink by her fingertips all day. One thing she _was_ certain of though was that it was better than the alternative of sitting alone in the flat. Plus, it was the right thing to do on this of all days.

Even if it didn't stop a muttered "Humbug" part her lips.

* * *

She wasn't religious, and she could only recall one memory of seeing the magic in Christmas. Her parents were normally on dig sites over the holidays so a traditional White Christmas was largely foreign to her. But a couple of years, the family did stay home.

She must have been about four or five. She'd been having a marvellous time in the lead-up to the holiday – sneaking still-hot mince pies from the kitchen, helping her mother and the servants decorate the tree, impressing her father with her snow pyramids and sphinx (Abu Simbel was proving more challenging), playing with her dinosaur toys by the fireplace and pelting Winston with snowballs. Which got her scolded, but was worth it.

On Christmas Eve she was bundled up, helped into her wellies and sandwiched between her parents. They walked hand in hand down to the little chapel that bordered the estate and served the local village. There they listened to the Nativity Story, sang Christmas carols and shook hands with the local farmers and their families.

Mostly Lara remembered being open-mouthed captivated by the light from all the candlesticks. There was nothing ornate about the tiny church; the candles rested in simple wrought iron candelabra, but in the soft, golden glow, everything was so beautiful.

After the church service, Thomas the driver was waiting with the car. Lara was tucked into bed with hot chocolate and a bedtime story. Something about a hero using his sword or smarts to defeat a monster no doubt; that was always her favourite subject. She dozed off like that, with her father animatedly telling the tale, and her mother stroking her hair as she listened alongside her little girl.

There wasn't even a need for presents the next day. Not really. It was already the perfect Christmas.

* * *

Which made it the complete opposite of Christmas six years later. She had never been more miserable. Roth couldn't come for her, but he didn't want her to sit alone at boarding school for her first holiday without her parents. So he arranged for her to spend it at Croft Manor.

Winston and the rest of the staff had tried to make it special for her, and she'd smiled for them; thanked them for their efforts. But as soon as she was alone, she'd start sobbing, shoulders hunched. It just wasn't the same. It would never be the same again. She felt so lonely without them.

After that first time, if she couldn't join Roth for whatever reason, she asked to stay at school over Christmas – far away from that Goddamn house with its happy memories turned to ice and ash. It was better that way; easier on her heart with its hundreds of hairline fractures.

* * *

Almost a decade later, those fractures were still there. Some a bit faded; others ingrained with dirt and dust, but they were still very much present. That's why she tried not to prod at them if she could help it.

* * *

Yet here she was. That same little girl now a grown woman. Mere weeks short of twenty.

She stopped her car on the shoulder of the road and stepped out of the vehicle into the crunch of snow.

The chapel looked shut up. Then again, it was almost 5pm on Christmas Day. The celebrations were over for most – the presents long since opened; the heavy, hot meal consumed. The vicar was probably off enjoying a sherry somewhere to celebrate the end of the demanding Advent calendar of events. Or maybe the building had been deserted as the community shrank and abandoned religious tradition. Lara didn't know the real reason; she was another local who had turned her back.

The gate to the churchyard was chained and locked. At only chest height, that wasn't much of an obstacle though. Lara grabbed hold of the iron and vaulted over it, balancing for a split-second on the apex. Just to see if she could.

She landed on the other side in a perfect gymnast's dismount.

She smirked to herself. _You've still got it, Croft_.

The next bit was nothing to smile about, however.

There was no aimless wandering among graves. The churchyard was small and she knew exactly where to go. She was not here often, but it was still often enough to find, and follow, the route on autopilot.

Her family had never gone the ostentatious mausoleum route, but they certainly occupied the best real estate in the cemetery. Their spot was on level earth off to the east side, free of the tangle of tree roots and grasping shrubs.

Lara stopped before a chunk of polished granite. There she withdrew two flowers from her jacket's inside pocket and unfolded the newspaper shielding them. A pair of roses; one red, one white. The holly and the mistletoe.

She laid the roses against the base of the gravestone and stepped back.

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad… I miss you."

Suddenly, in the silence and stillness, she was overcome by a sense of foolishness. She hadn't planned her actions beyond this point. It was Christmas Day and she was standing out in the gloom, bundled up against the cold while talking to a pair of empty coffins.

And yet she couldn't bring herself to turn away from the cold slab of commemoration. She hardly ever came here. In fact she tried her hardest not to think about _here_ at all.

Instead of fleeing, she shifted from foot to foot; trying to envision a normal parent-child interaction when the latter came home for the holidays.

_What always happened on the telly?_

She went with the first thing that came to mind… and immediately regretted it.

"Uh, what's new with me? Well, I – I met someone."

* * *

She could picture an alternate version of the conversation. The three of them inside the manor, sitting before the giant fireplace in the lounge. Lara would be straight-backed in the Edwardian armchair; her parents reclining into each other on the matching sofa in off-white and mahogany.

At their daughter's admission, Richard and Amelia would share a chuffed _Well, it's about time_ smile and pull themselves upright, eager for the big reveal.

"You know my friend, Sam?"

They nodded; their grins broadening and their eyes brightening.

"Well, uh… it's her."

Silence was the most terrifying response of all, so, voice still trembling, Lara added, "I – I'm in love with her."

She could see their smiles fading; their bodies stiffening.

"I'm sorry. I know that's not what you would have wanted for me." She shook her head, "I wish I didn't feel this way either. It just kind of happened."

* * *

Her voice started to crack, and tears threatened at the thought of their disappointment. Their expressions would be heartbroken, she knew it. She sniffed hard and wiped the back of her mitten across her nose. She smiled weakly, "Of course none of this really matters. She likes boys."

It took a few deep breaths – some of them shuddering perilously – but Lara was finally able to regain control. _Crying on Christmas Day was just not on_.

When she could trust her voice again, she added with a shrug, "And she doesn't know. Nobody knows."

* * *

In her mind's eye, it didn't end there. She'd only ever known love from her parents. As concerned as she looked, Amelia Croft still stood and went to her daughter. She pulled Lara to her feet, straight into an embrace. As an adult, Lara was substantially taller than her mother. In Amelia's arms, Lara rested her cheek on the older woman's shoulder.

_God, how she wished her mother was there just then_.

* * *

Lara folded her arms over herself. She clenched her eyes shut and murmured, "I hope that wherever you are, you have each other. And that you're happy."

She stood then in silence, holding herself, until the last of the day's light leeched away.

At that point, it made far more sense for her to get back in her car and drive the two miles to the manor house. Except she was craving some kind of physical release for all the emotion built up within her.

So she left her battered Jimny at the churchyard gate, shouldered her backpack and began a swift trudge up to Croft Manor.

* * *

At the mansion, she typed in the security access code and slid open one half of the monstrous front door. As expected, inside was cold stone and wood panelled gloom.

Lara headed straight to the cloak room to hang up her jacket.

"Lady Lara?"

She startled at the voice behind her.

She turned to find the same crumpled face she'd known all her life. "Winston, what are you doing here? I thought you'd be at your sister's?"

"She's spending the holidays with my nephew and his family in Australia." The servant added. "If it's a problem, Lady Lara, I can leave."

"No, of course not."

She noticed the poker clutched in his hand – this white haired old man, slightly shaking, in a threadbare cardigan. Yet he was still prepared to confront an intruder for the sake of his long-gone employers.

Winston noted Lara frowning at the metal rod and tucked it behind his back. Immediately he slipped into full-blown butler mode, straight-spined and all. "May I get you a cup of tea, m'lady?"

After her drive and emotional episode outside, exposed to the remorseless Winter air the whole time, there was no better present. She continued unwinding her scarf. "That would be wonderful, Winston. Thank you. I'll be in the lounge."

* * *

The lounge, library, kitchen and her bedroom were pretty much the only rooms in the manor left in a condition for instant habitation. Just in case Lara stopped by. Everything else was locked up and/or thoroughly draped by order of the estate manager.

It gave the place the aura of a tomb. Anywhere else that would have been thrilling; here, though, it was oppressive. Even since her parents vanished, whenever she visited she'd felt like she was walking with ghosts. Her, warm and living; everything else cold and dead, but still scrutinising her. Her Croft inheritance.

It made her shiver.

And that she refused to have.

So she was on her hands and knees, half inside the fireplace when she heard the clatter of china behind her.

"Lady Lara. Good heavens! Let me do that."

"There." She watched the kindling catch, and start to tickle her log lay.

_No need for Girl Scouts when you earned all your merit badges from the Roth Academy for Young Female Survivalists_.

She turned to find the old man scowling at her. She could see the muscles clenching in his jaw and she knew he was just dying to berate her. Except he knew his place and that meant he couldn't unleash the reprimands he wanted without stepping outside the class system he still believed in so fervently.

"Relax, Winston. I like the practice. Surprisingly, I don't get to start fires that often in London. Well, not unless I'm cooking."

Growing up, she had always delighted in horrifying him with her tomboy exploits. Like her mother's mother, he had very rigid definitions of what it was to be a lady.

Lara knew all the rules – she'd had them drummed into her by her grandmother, as well as seven years at a prestigious public school. In fact, she could play the game very well when she had to. She just hated it. The tedious prescription. The hollowness of everything. There was a place for ritual, and she appreciated that, but this was action without solid underlying meaning to bolster it. Too much pressure and the whole façade would crumble into dark emptiness.

Winston watched in horror as she wiped her palms on the front of her teal jumper.

"M'lady, you shouldn't…"

"Winston. My father served with the military. I'm a barmaid. The Crofts are hardly known for their conventionality."

"Hmmph," was the sour-faced response.

"Besides, I'm the last of my line. That is quite liberating in some respects. No one to answer to except for my hypercritical butler." She winked at him.

Stony expressioned, clearly disapproving, Winston presented her tea on a silver tray. Only here was she served with a cup and saucer. Back at the flat her choice of drinking vessels was a mismatched collection of pop culture coffee mugs, from Hello Kitty to House Stark – all courtesy of Sam's online shopping sprees.

Lara sipped on her tea, and sighed as the warmth spread down her gullet. _Much better._

Winston was placing a plate of Ginger Nuts on the side table. His back was to her, which made this the perfect opportunity. She was just going to leave it for him, but seeing as he was here…

With her free hand she reached into her backpack.

When the butler turned around, she had the flat rectangular package balanced on her palm.

"Winston, Merry Christmas."

His eyes widened. "Lady Lara?"

She shook the present, encouraging him to take it. He did, hesitantly. "What is this?"

"My laundry." She arched an eyebrow, "What do you think?"

Her snarky nerve failed her though as he started to tear back the paper. "It's not much…"

Winston stopped mid-unwrapping and gaped at his employer. "Good heavens, where did you find this?"

She shrugged dismissively, "Some archives digging and a little bit of favour asking."

"I'd been looking for so – "

"I know. I know what Geoffrey meant to you."

She hated it when her looks helped her accomplish things, but the archivist had jumped at the chance to assist the pretty young brunette with her request. The result was a framed photograph of Winston's older brother and his Royal Tank Regiment unit, taken during the North African campaign.

Geoffrey never came home from the War, and over time Winston's family had lost most photos of their hero son.

"Lady Lara, this is – I can't believe – " The elderly man's hands were shaking as he studied the picture. "Thank you."

When he looked up at her, she could see how shimmery his eyes were. Immediately, he cleared his throat and reasserted his professionalism.

"Will you be staying the night, m'lady?"

She looked in the direction of the window. It was already pitch black outside. Despite her reservations about spending time at the Manor, a nocturnal trek back to London was far less appealing at that moment. "Yes. I think I'll sleep here for a change."

"And dinner? Have you eaten, m'lady?"

"Oh, no. But that's alright." She plunged a hand back into her pack and pulled out a Styrofoam container wrapped in plastic from the Nine Bells. "I have leftovers."

He stared at her like she was dangling a bag of dog shit. " _Leftovers_? You can't have leftovers for Christmas dinner."

"Why not?"

"Because it's Christmas, and you're the Countess of Abbingdon."

"And countesses don't eat leftovers?"

"They should not."

Lara sighed, exasperated by having to deal with straightjacket tradition at the end of a very long, very draining day. "Well, what do you propose? I can't exactly ring for the cook now can I?"

"I prepared a small meal for myself."

"I'm not going to deprive you of your dinner, Winston."

"It's the least I can do, m'lady."

"Absolutely not." The solution came to her then. "Dinner can be a potluck." She thrust the bag in Winston's direction. "We'll share. You can heat this up and add it to whatever you made."

"Lady Lara, that wouldn't be proper."

"Don't argue with me, Winston."

"But – "

"Winston. You _will_ use the leftovers. And you _will_ eat dinner with me." She sucked in air so she'd have something to help force out her order, despite how absurd she felt saying it. "Your ladyship… commands it. I – "

_What did her teachers always used to say in moments like this?_

"I won't tolerate insubordination."

Weirdly, a little smile twitched on Winston's lips. She recognised a sparkle of something in his eyes. Pride?

He dipped his head. "As you wish, m'lady."

Immediately she felt awful about bossing him around.

He was already turning to leave and ready the meal.

"Winston?"

He faced her once more, expectant for her next instruction.

"Can we eat downstairs? The dining room is…" _Full of ghosts._ She didn't say that though. She went with "cold" instead.

"Of course, Lady Lara."

* * *

Lara hauled her backpack upstairs to her bedroom. She always had to shake her head at the difference between the palatial space – complete with reading alcove, mammoth adjourning bathroom and full sofa set – and her pokey room at the flat, which just accommodated her IKEA-bought single bed, desk and bookshelf.

_The cost of living life your way, on your own terms, Croft._

She was hauling out her toiletries and pyjamas when her hand brushed against something hard at the bottom of her bag.

She drew out the mystery object – a plain shoebox with _Archaeologist Survival Kit_ stencilled in marker along the top. Slapped next to the label was a Post-it. Lara plucked it free of the package.

_I have no doubt you'll find this._ _You can't stay still… even when I'm not around to drag you fun places. Happy Christmas, sweetie!_

_P.S. Tell Winston I say hi._

Surprised but smiling, Lara lifted the lid on the box.

On top, draped over the other contents was a T-shirt emblazoned with "Archaeologists Dig It!" in the Indiana Jones font. She lifted out the top and fingered through the rest of the loot.

Two boxes of Jaffa Cakes.

A bag of chocolate coins in gold foil.

A strawberry flavoured, extra-ribbed condom that Lara dropped as soon as she realised what it was.

A Red Bull wedged into a Sisters of Artemis travel mug.

A mini bottle of Glenfiddich.

A spiral notebook.

A leather tool roll with brushes, precision pick set and mini trowels.

And, right at the bottom, a framed picture of the friends during their first trip together – toasting the camera with sangria in Spain.

Lara trailed her finger along the image. At that moment her grin was as wide as it had been during that boozy afternoon at the rooftop bar.

Right then, she didn't care about time difference. She grabbed her phone and fired off a message.

_**I thought we weren't doing gifts?** _

She'd just about given up on receiving a response when, a minute later, her phone pinged.

_Great minds!_

_**I love it, Sam. Tho you can keep the condom.** _

_RU sure? 1 of these days Alex is gonna wear u down._

_**GOD NO!** _

_Lara Croft and the Legendary Programmer Pity Fuck_.

_**Legendary is the right choice of words.** _

_Hehe, Well see. Anyway, Im knackered. Did I get that right?_

_**Yup.** _

_Going back to sleep. Chat tom, babe. XXXXX._

_**Bye, Sam.** _

* * *

Lara was still in good spirits as dinner commenced. The archaeology student was even able to smile wryly over the rim of her wine glass at the scene she was a part of.

_So this is a Lara Croft Christmas?_

Nineteen years old and eating microwaved pub leftovers for Christmas dinner in the servant's quarters with a doddery octogenarian. They were both wearing creased paper crowns that refused to sit straight on their heads, and every Christmas cracker they pulled had been a dud. Evidently the dusty box that Winston found in the pantry was so old that the gunpowder had gone soggy and useless.

Sam would have said the whole thing was tragic, but that was quite fitting actually. Lara Croft's life had been one of tragedy… to date anyway.

Winston raised his goblet in a toast. "To the Crofts, the finest family a man could serve."

Lara responded in turn, "To the finest dinner companions… and loyal friends."

That set Winston off. He was beaming at her. And that kind of adoration always made Lara feel uncomfortable. She just wanted a low-key life of work and study – in a museum somewhere, or out in the field; wherever put her off the grid.

Her ancestry was already a cumbersome, weighted yoke that she'd have to shoulder her entire life despite how often she tried to forget it. Mansions, titles and starry-eyed servants declaring her praises further added to her burden. And royally embarrassed her.

She flushed even as Winston murmured, "If I may be so bold, m'lady?"

"You don't have to ask permission to speak, Winston."

He still looked hesitant to begin though. "It's just that, well, we were worried for a long time. You were always a very… determined child. When you got an idea in your head, you would not be deterred from your goal. Your father was exactly the same. But after his Lord and Ladyship disappeared, you seemed to retreat into yourself. The fire went out of your eyes for years. I'm glad to see it back. All of the old servants would be."

Lara gazed down at her plate as she cut her slice of chicken breast apart. "I don't feel like it's back, Winston."

"I see it. Purpose. A yearning for adventure; the opportunity to make your mark… You're your father to a tee. Just… He could obsess. To the detriment of everyone and everything else."

"Don't worry, Winston. That won't happen to me." She rolled her eyes. "I know enough not to go chasing fairy tales. There is more than enough mystery in the _real_ world to satisfy me, thank you."

Winston was resting his chin on his fist, scrutinising her. Clearly the wine was taking effect. He would never be so upfront normally, even when it involved nostalgic reminisces.

"There is so much of your father in you, but your heart – that's your mother's. You undoubtedly have her looks, but you also have her generosity of spirit. She was a wonderful woman; utterly selfless when it came to those she loved. I see that in you too."

She hadn't realised she was clenching her knife and fork with white knuckles. She consciously loosened her grip.

"Winston, can we please not talk about my parents? Just today."

The old man's eyes widened and the class barrier dropped between employer and employee like a portcullis.

"Oh, of course, Lady Lara. I am so terribly sorry."

Dwelling on Richard and Amelia Croft has soured Lara's mood and silenced the room.

Winston, no doubt alcohol-emboldened, tried valiantly to regenerate the conversation.

"You have grown into a lovely young woman, if you don't mind me saying, m'lady?"

Lara mumbled, "I don't mind."

"Is there someone special…?"

The archaeology student groaned, "Oh God, can we go back to discussing my parents? You won't eat dinner with me on the basis of propriety but you probe me about my love life?"

Her companion began to stammer out an apology. But she interrupted him, relenting. "It's complicated, Winston."

"Complicated?" Of course Facebook catchphrases would be lost on him.

"Perhaps unrequited is the better word."

"Lady Lara, please forgive me but if a young gentleman, or a young lady for that matter…"

Her knife clattered on the china.

Winston tactfully ignored her. "If they cannot recognise your value, and their supreme good fortune at winning your affections, then they are not good enough for you. Not even close."

Lara scrutinised the elderly butler. Just when did he become so perceptive? Then again, a lifetime of obedience and silent observation probably did it.

"Your feelings will change, Lady Lara. I guarantee it. Who you are now is not who you'll be in ten years' time. Your father was thirty when he met your mother. You have all the time in the world to find your heart."

* * *

After dinner Winston refused to let her help clean up and she was shooed out of the room like a naughty young lady who didn't know her place – just like the little girl she'd once been.

She found herself back in the lounge before the fire, gazing at the portrait of her parents suspended above the mantelpiece.

She sipped on her wine – Winston had made a wonderful selection – and scowled at the painting. Whoever decided to hang the image here, where it was impossible for her to ignore them looking down on her, was a sick bastard.

Lara sank onto the couch.

It had been a day of emotional yo-yoing. Her happiness seemed to surge and retreat like a tide. She hated not having control over her mood.

It probably didn't help that she'd had too much to drink. It made her mournful again; saw her rushing straight back into those frigid tidal waters.

She curled on her side and stared at the flames in the hearth. Stared past them.

* * *

That first Christmas back at the manor, alone.

After dinner, while the servants were busy, she crept into the library. It was dark but she couldn't risk being caught if she reached for a light switch. Instead she operated by the moonlight tumbling into the room in patches through the windows with their curtains still drawn back.

In addition to being unlit, the library was without heating. She could see her breath. But even if her Christmas jumper and slacks didn't provide enough protection against the icy fingers grasping at her from the stone walls and floor, she wasn't going to be deterred.

She approached her father's desk. There, sitting slap-bang in the middle of the old leather desk pad was Richard Croft's journal. It was one of the possessions they'd returned from his campsite after they gave up on the search.

Lara took the battered book in her arms, cradling it like a puppy, and curled up on the divan. It didn't matter how cold it was. She still managed to fall asleep like that, clutching the journal to her chest.

_Dad._

After that her memories became choppy, like a poorly organised, poorly labelled photo album.

A figure in silhouette, standing over her.

Being carried in a man's arms.

Pressing her face into black fabric.

And, finally, being tucked into bed.

* * *

Her eyelids were heavy. Dream, reminisce and reality were starting to swim together, as indistinguishable as oil in night time waters. As her eyes closed, the last thing she saw was Winston, white-haired, standing shadowed between her and the fire.

"Winston," she slurred. "Merry Christmas."

The last thing she remembered was his murmur as he gently drew a blanket over her. "Merry Christmas, Lady Lara."

* * *

_Note from the author:_

_A huge thank you to everyone for reading this and my other fics. Happy holidays to you and your loved ones. I hope you get to spend the season with Sam-one special at your side to enrich the experience;)_


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